Page 63 of The Dead Saint

But something about it was changing. She reached out tentatively, worried about what contact might mean but unable to stop as she pressed her hand flat against the surface. As soon as her fingers connected, the stone began to crack, a hairline fracture shooting up from her palm. Others joined it, cracks spreading, connecting and branching off from each other. The surface began to crumble.

Stepping back quickly, she watched in horror as it continued to break apart and revealed what lay beneath. Something jerked, twisting free of the rock. Shards of the wall broke away, tumbling down to shatter against the cavern floor. A skeletal hand emerged—pale and polished—catching the light as if it too were gilded. Bones carved from mother-of-pearl. More sections of the wall crumbled, and another hand appeared. Then another.

They reached outward, grasping at thin air, fighting to be free as if the stone were not solid but thick, clinging mud. It released them reluctantly. Around the cavern, she heard other places crumbling, other cracks widening. Sharp cracks filled her head, ringing through her body. They beat against her skin and poured cold, hard fear down her spine.

As she watched, a shoulder blade emerged and a skeletal foot stepped out, the leg following. Then, a six-foot skeleton was struggling to pull its other leg and arm free. It turned to her, sockets full of shadows, so dark her lantern could not penetrate the hollows. It grinned at her, snapping pointed, serrated teeth, lunging and fighting to break free.

* * *

Sorcha’s scream filled his ears, a piercing cry that seized his muscles, froze his blood.

“Pull me up! Pull me up!”

There was panic in her voice, so much fear the howling wind was incapable of sweeping it all away.

“Get her up!” he ordered Revenant and Thompson, and the others rushed to help.

They worked together, but he knew the moment he tugged the rope, it was too light. She wasn’t on it. Panic brushed him, a lingering touch, a whisper at the back of his mind.

Sorcha, he pleaded. But he couldn’t sort through the rest of his thoughts, the images flashing across his mind, her face, her hand on his chest, the feel of her quickening pulse against his fingertips. Sorcha.

“She’s not on the rope,” Thompson said.

“Keep pulling,” Adrian responded, motioning with his hand.

The end of the rope slipped over the edge, and a golden bone bumped across the stone, muted in the half-light, hinting at the richness. It was a huge rib bone, the curve pronounced.

Working quickly, he undid the knot, and Domenico came forward with a length of velvet.

“Adrian!” she screamed again, a hoarse edge in the tone—terror and desperation.

He dropped the rope back over the side, hoping she’d catch it. Several long seconds—years of tense anticipation—passed. Wind wailed in his ears, carrying a drawn-out snarling, cry.

The rope jerked, then went taut—her weight on the other end. They pulled on the rope again, but Sorcha swinging back and forth made it difficult for them to keep their grip. He pulled quickly, grunting with the speed and effort, while the men at his back took up the slack.

Finally, she crested the lip of the cliff, scrabbling for a handhold, searching for purchase on the bare stone.

“Hold on,” he said, and he didn’t know if it was to her or his men.

Moving quickly, he dropped the rope and reached for Sorcha, grabbing her wrists—fighting to get a better grip.

Her face was pale, with shallow scratches stretching from temple to ear. Blood was in her hair and snaking down her neck.

She trembled, and he pulled her into his arms, whispering against her hair. “I’ve got you.”

Her blood was on his hands, on his armor, and when she looked up at him, his heart twisted. Fear and pain colored her features, but when she looked at him, relief washed over her gaze. He ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, and she winced. Her sleeves were damp with blood.

“What happened?” he asked, lifting her arms and inspecting them carefully.

They looked like bite wounds, ragged half-moons, but no flesh was missing, only punctures and nothing else. Pale sections of her skin could be glimpsed through ripped fabric; places he wanted to cover. He could smell the saltwater in her hair, and her cheeks were red with the biting cold rolling in from the water. The urge to pull her against him, hide her from the world swept through him.

“We need to leave this place,” she whispered. “I don’t know if they can climb.”

“Who?”

“The things that guarded the relic. Please.” She touched his chest. “We need to leave.”

The heat of her hand warmed his skin, sending a shudder down his spine. Her touch was like being branded by fire, each time, again and again. He wanted to make her feel safe. He wanted to find out what her touch felt like on his bare skin.

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